


"I should like to hear a story."

by quintic



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blood, During Canon, Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, Pre-Canon, amputation mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4427189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quintic/pseuds/quintic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the child is born, her eyes are bright, and pool like clear water in the middle of her face. </p><p>A collection of short stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hair (Furiosa & Valkyrie)

Furiosa is little more than three thousand days old when she cuts her hair for the first time.

It happens like this:

Her hair is brown, dark like mud, and trails to the small of her back in unruly waves. Mary likes to put her hands through it just before bed. She finger combs it none-too-gently, while Furiosa lies on her lap and waits impatiently to be freed. Every morning she winds it into tight spirals and pins it behind her head to keep it out of her face. When the weather is colder, she stuffs fistfuls of it unceremoniously under her leather cap before she goes out into the fields to play. When she swims, it fans out around her face like a wet curtain. 

Her hair is pretty; the Mothers touch her forehead with their fingertips, and tell her she looks so much like Jo Bassa (something that never fails to make her glow with pride). Sometimes the Keeper will sit, and braid it for her. She will braid in exchange for a good story, but it’s so hard to come up with something she hasn’t already heard. Furiosa leaves in every braid she’s gifted until the sun frays it out again. 

Her hair is heavy. It gets in the way. It drags behind her when it’s knotted into a tail at the nape of her neck. Val likes to pull it to get her attention, always screams with laughter when Furiosa rounds upon her, and darts away among the grass to encourage a game of chase. 

It’s Val, who dares her to do it. 

She has a wicked smile hidden behind her fists that only widens when Furiosa takes her knife, and hacks her hair off without hesitation. She is holding a fistful of it in her hand, utterly unapologetic when Mary finds her. At first she thinks she is in trouble, but Mary only takes it from her and coaxes her to sit. She takes the knife and shaves the rest of her daughter’s head, cropping it close to the skull. Furiosa runs a hand up the nape of her neck over and over that night before she settles in to sleep, and _loves_  it. 

The next morning, Val can only look at her with wide, admiring eyes. Furiosa straightens underneath the attention. She is proud of the way the Mothers look at her too, how they still tell her she looks just like her mother. Val touches it later that day, then calls her  _hedgehog,_  and pushes her into the stream. Furiosa revels in the way the water slides uninterrupted down her shoulders, then reaches for her friend’s ankle, and pulls her in too.


	2. Valkyrie (Gen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For manticoreimagery on Tumblr, in reference to this post: http://manticoreimaginary.tumblr.com/post/123273999504/i-refuse-to-believe-these-two-arent-mother-and

When the child is born, her eyes are bright, and pool like clear water in the middle of her face.

Like the Vuvalini who came before her she is passed slowly around the circle of Mothers shortly after her birth and blessed; they kiss her brow with their chapped lips, and murmur hard, proud words into her ears. She grows up strong and tall on the backbone of her Mothers’ self-confidence and strength, and nobody ever tells her she can’t.

Though she is called many things, she has yet to gain her official title. Her name is something that will come later: when she is old enough to bear the responsibility that comes with having it. Until then she is “sprog” and “ankle-biter”, sometimes “love”.

She is called “love” seldom, at nights when she sits tucked into her mother’s side about the fire. One of the old ones will close her eyes and say something wistful, like “Oh, I would like to hear a story”, and her mother will run both hands slowly through her wild hair, her sole pride. She is four years old and it reaches the small of her back and it is dark like night, dark like the crow’s wing. The colour matches her mother’s tight curls.

“You’ll be just like her, sheila,” says the Keeper, and reaches to touch her forehead with the tips of her fingers, “You’ll be all that, and you’ll be more.”

The sprog only nods, and casts her watery gaze towards the stars.


	3. Things you said while we were driving: (Furiosa & Max)

Furiosa is asleep. 

It’s jarring, to see her so still. Even when she’s awake and only staring out of the window she’s like a giant muscle, tense all over and ready, always ready. Now, she’s soft and curved against the passenger window, her brow furrowed where it rests upon the cool glass. He wonders if she dreams. 

The desert is unchanging as he coaxes the rig through the shifting sands. Anybody else might have been bored; Max welcomes the muted landscape, the menial task of simply gripping the wheel in both hands and driving straight. He’s focused enough to keep the ghosts from whispering in his ears, and that’s all he needs right now. To look forward, rather than back. As long as he doesn’t look back he won’t see  _her:_ tall, drawn straight like a proud line and draped in white, one hand over her stomach. 

 _Where_ are _you, Max?_

He shakes the whisper away with a grunt. Furiosa comes out of her sleep then, with a soft murmur, eyes unfocused on the dashboard. He doesn’t say anything. He waits until she’s pushed herself up straight in her chair, and cast a glance over her shoulder at the Wives and the War Boy pillowed upon each other in the back and fast asleep. 

“How long was I out?” 

Her voice is low. She isn’t looking at him; he has a feeling she hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He shrugs, and squints at the sky in answer, which only makes her sigh, and knuckle the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Give her another couple klicks before we stop to check the sands. You mind driving?”

He shakes his head, and rolls his words around in his mouth before he speaks. Even then, his voice is slow. “Mmm. You can sleep. If you want.” A pause. He readjusts his grip on the wheel, and his gaze flickers from her, back to the road. “I’ll– I’ll wake you up, if I need to.”

She stares at him for a long moment. Just as Max is becoming hyper-aware of how intently he is avoiding her gaze, she looks away again, and settles back against her seat. Her arms fold in front of her, and she exhales, low and tired. 

“Okay,” she says, relenting, then adds (so soft he nearly misses it), “Thanks.”


	4. Things you said with too many miles between us: (Furiosa & Valkyrie)

You are nearly five thousand days old when Furiosa is taken, when the Rock Raiders come at night and set fire to your lives.

They tear her away from you, kicking you both apart with a force that you cannot overcome. You scream, sharp and high in warning, and go fiercely for the ones you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. You are face down on the ground when they tear away in their cars, grit in your mouth and blood in your eyes. Grief curdles the anger in your gut, and you can hardly stand the ache.

You are pushing yourself upright on torn elbows when one of the Mothers scoops you from the ground and pulls you to her, soothing your ragged, angry sobs with her scraped palms. You howl into her chest and clench your hands into her hair. It is good that she holds you tight. It’s the only thing keeping you in place. You are jumpy for your bike and the road, and the trail of the men who are taking Furiosa far away. You long to tear away and follow before their tracks cool, but the Vuvalini do not splinter: they work as one, as a whole. You’ll likely gather yourselves tonight, assess, and calculate the steps to be taken tomorrow. You clear your throat, and deliver your intent:

“I’m going to find them,” you say. Your voice is hoarse and frightening, a great, horrible rasp. After all, you are Valkyrie, named for the way you shoot the rifle and hold the spear, for the countless War Boys you’ve brought weeping to the gates of Valhalla. Furiosa is not going to die. Only  _you_  get to decide that. You are the chooser of the slain. “I’m going to find  _her_. I’m going to bring her back.”

Your Mother is silent in response. She puts the heel of her palm into the small of your back, and rubs in slow circles until you calm. 


	5. Self indulgence (Furiosa/Valkyrie)

When Max next turns up at the Citadel he greets Furiosa in her quarters. He knows the layout of the Citadel like the back of his hand now; he allows his feet to take him to her almost mindlessly, gravitating slowly back towards her as he always does when he can’t stand the emptiness of the wastes any longer. He’s long come to associate his occasional longing for Furiosa and her company with abject loneliness taking its toll; he used to tell himself he came back solely to check on her and the Citadel, but Furiosa doesn’t need to be looked out for. Never has, never will. He comes back for the smiles she gives him, for the way her quiet conversation quells the roaring in his brain, eases the weariness in his joints. They’re friends, is what he’s realised; and that he trusts her, implicitly.

When he knocks once on her door and opens it, she’s propped up at her desk and reading lazily; her expression brightens at the sight of him. 

“Hey,” she says, and marks her page by dog-earring the corner. Max dully thinks that Cheedo would kill her for that, if she knew. “You’re back.”  
“Mmm,” he grunts. She looks good. Her eye had been opening slowly by painful degrees the last time he had seen her, and now it’s almost back to normal. A light bruise still lingers across the bridge of her nose, but that will fade eventually. He wonders if her vision has suffered– he’ll have to ask her later. For now…

He’s holding something in both hands, and it doesn’t take long for her to notice the way he won’t quite meet her gaze, or hasn’t come further into the room. Her smile dissolves in response.   
“What,” she says. She’s straightened in her seat without realising it, feet coming down from her foot rest and planting firmly on the ground. “What is it?” Her eyes dart to the bundle in his hands, then back to his face.

He crosses the room to give it to her. She takes it gingerly from him; the material is leaking feathers, down splintering off in her hands as she holds it up to the light, examining it. The tunic is threadbare and patchy. Her hands clench around it in sudden recognition. Max swallows, and dares a glance at her: she’s staring at the black feathers sewn into the shoulders of the fabric, stricken.   
“Thought I’d scout out the canyon,” he says carefully. Furiosa’s expression crumples in response– he presses on, trying to keep the words from sticking as he speaks, gesturing uselessly at the tunic clenched in her hands. “Brought– something back for you.”

The Valkyrie steps out from behind him.

Her steps are still uneven; Max had found her with her leg in two, and had splinted it to the best of his ability. She walks it on it doesn’t hurt her in the slightest. Furiosa looks up sharply– and drops the tunic. She stares for a long moment, and The Valkyrie stares back.

They move at the same time: Furiosa to both feet and Valkyrie swooping in close like a shadow. She presses their foreheads together and Furiosa chokes on– a sob? a laugh?– and dips her head to kiss her firmly, her hand curling across the back of Valkyrie’s neck and anchoring there, tight, like she’ll never let go. Max shuffles and glances away, but just as he’s attempting to shuffle out of the door the two women break apart again. Furiosa is looking at him wildly, her eyes blazing with a gratitude he hasn’t seen since the Fury Road.

“Thank you,” she says. Valkyrie has her forehead pressed against Furiosa’s neck and says nothing; her arms tighten around her shoulders. Furiosa sighs, the sound wobbly, relieved. Max nods.   
“She was already on her way,” he points out, collecting his bag from the door and hoisting it up over his shoulder. “I just gave her a lift.”


	6. Saints (Gen)

Fleeting is the first to try to back out. Bright Eye knew she would– knows when nervousness is about to hit her. She grows steadily more and more quiet the more her anxiousness swells, until she can’t stand it any more: her outburst comes right on time, as they are placing the candles.

“Is this really a good idea?”  
“Yes,” Bright Eye insists, twisting the candles down into the sand so they won’t fall over. It’s very dark now, but the sky is open and the moon is bright, illuminating their work. Fleeting has a torch in one hand, and a handful of her skirt in the other, and it’s easy to see she is trying to think of a reason to go back to the Citadel.   
“Are you going to help?” Tuscany says, and snatches the torch from her. she passes it to Redamency, who takes it without a word.   
“We aren’t supposed to be out here,” Fleeting tries, her hands balling up into her linens, “We’ll get in trouble!”  
“Nest is on lookout tonight,” Bright Eye reminds her, and hands her a candle. “She’ll cover for us.”

They plant the remaining candles in nervous silence. Bright Eye can’t keep herself from smiling. The night is cold but there is a warm electricity sparking within her at the thought of what they’re about to do.   
“How do you even know about this?” Fleeting says, pushing the last candle into place reluctantly, “I thought nobody did this kind of stuff any more.”  
“They don’t,” Bright Eye says, “But they should.”  
“They should,” echoes Sharpener, speaking up suddenly. “Mum still invokes the Saints. Why shouldn’t we?”  
“Because they’re not real, cog for brains.”  
“Are too.”  
“Are  _not_ ,” Tuscany insists, “You know how Bright Eye gets. She probably read it in a book somewhere.”  
“My grandmother owned that book. She got it from her mother, who got it from her mother, who got it from  _the_ Mothers.”  
“Bullshit.”  
“Truth! Ask her if you like. Her mother was a history woman, had the story on her shins.”  
“You’re such a dag, Eye.”  
“Don’t take her name in vain,” Redamency snaps, and turns off the torch.

They stand there in silence for a long moment, squinting at each other in the dark.   
“Bugger it,” Tuscany mutters, and folds her arms. “Okay. What do we do, then?”  
“We light the candles,” Bright Eye says after a moment’s careful pause, and pulls a lighter out of her pocket. She tosses it to Sharpener, who drops to a crouch and starts to light. They pass it silently to one another until the entire circle is lit. The group is somber, now. Bright Eye digs her toes into the sand and takes Sharpener’s hand in hers.

“You know the names,” she says, looking meaningfully about the circle at her sisters. They nod in return. Tuscany unfolds her arms, stands up a little straighter. “We’ll call them, one at a time.”   
“Are we going to ask them for something?” Sharpener’s voice is small, but curious.   
“Yes,” Bright Eye says firmly, “They lived and died to protect us, you know. To keep us from Before. They love us. I think we should ask for a blessing.”  
“Who’s first?” says Fleeting, and reaches for Tuscany’s hand. One by one they slowly link, until they mirror the circle of candles in the sand.   
“I’ll go,” says Redamency, and feels Sharpener squeeze her hand in response.

The wind is still when she starts to speak. “Hail to the Guardian,” she calls, and sees Bright Eye’s mouth curl into a helpless, excited smile across the circle, “To the Saint of Ingenuity. Cheedo, the Fragile, the Fierce, the Forgiving. Daughter of Deception and the Drive. My sisters and I invoke you from the heart of the Mothers. Hear my call, and come.”

Tuscany mouths  _show off_  at her from Fleeting’s right, but Bright Eye looks fit to burst, her face childlike and joyful in the half-light.

“Hail to the Mother,” Tuscany recites, after a moment’s pause. “The Saint of the Seed. Dag, the Daring, the Defiant, Daughter of the Wind and the Wings. My sisters and I invoke you from the earth of the Green Place. Hear my call, and come.”

“Hail to the Leader,” Sharpener stutters, eyes closed as she concentrates, “The Saint of Tenacity. Toast the Knowing, the Keen, Daughter of the Bullet and the Bearings. Um– my sisters and I invoke you from the wind over the Citadel. Hear my call, and come.”

The uncertanty has died in Fleeting as she opens her mouth. There is something about the way Bright Eye looks steadily at her that makes her feel safe. Something about the way the night air has stilled, how she can hear her sisters breathing slow and in time. The candles flicker as she begins her part.

“Hail to the Guider, the Saint of Selflessness. Capable the Carer, the Courageous, Daughter of the Moon and the Musing. My sisters and I invoke you from the stars in the sky above. Hear my call, and come.”

They all look at Bright Eye. She is the last to speak. She is suddenly silent and serious, drawn straight like a thunderstick at the head of the circle.

“Hail to the Deliverer,” she says, and Redamency shivers at the sound of her voice. “The Saint of the Words. Angharad the Saviour, the Scarred, the Eternal Sister. Daughter of the Fury and the Faith. My sisters and I invoke you from the sands of the Wastes. Hear my call, and come.”

Her next words are a hissing whisper, of a phrase from long ago. “ _We are not things_.”

“We are not things,” Redamency murmurs, and her sisters follow suit, squeezing each other’s hands and shuffling in place. The Wastes are silent. They bow their heads together and stand like that for a long moment, hand in hand and deep in thought.

The sudden gust of wind that blows every candle out makes Fleeting shriek.

They break the spell with laughter, as Fleeting’s ears go red. It is Tuscany’s idea to leave the candles sitting in the sand as an offering. They also leave behind their bond, kissing each other upon the cheek one at a time before they let go of each other’s hands. They are awestruck and giddy as they pile into Sharpener’s Hummer, chatting in low whispers and giggling in the back seat as they take what remains of the Fury Road back to the Citadel.

Only Bright Eye doesn’t chat. She pillows her head upon Redamency’s shoulder and closes her eyes, mouth curled at the corners in satisfaction.  

Up above the stars, the Saints notice, and smile.


	7. Flock (Cheedo & The Dag)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by this post: http://femme-de-lettres.tumblr.com/post/128300919093

In the tenth year of the Age of Mothers, the Dag starts to raise sheep. They come to her from far away, an impromptu flock crossing the wastes at a crawl. Cheedo spies them from the top of the look out tower one still afternoon. She calls for Dag, who comes to look. 

“What are they?” she says, chin in her hands.   
“I don’t know,” says the Dag.   
“They look like clouds,” says Cheedo, and giggles. “Little clouds, on black stick legs.”

They send out a scout to look; she returns with the animals in the back of her car. They are somber and still, but their eyes are wild. When Dag reaches out to touch, they shy, and bleat, and stamp. It takes a long time to figure out what to do with them, and by the time they’ve decided Cheedo has already won their trust. They stand near her and allow her to stroke them, from head to tail along their soft backs. Their coats are curly and overgrown, matted near their feet and tails.   
“We should cut them,” Cheedo says, and looks anxiously at the Dag. “Their coats, I mean. We’re not going to eat them, right?”  
“No,” Dag reassures, and puts a hand to the nearest one, coaxing it close. She pushes the wool carefully back from its face with her fingers. “They’re called sheep,” she explains. “Magdalene says people used to keep them for their wool. You can spin it, like the hemp.”

In the thirteenth year, their flock has doubled. What was three, now is six. The lambs are sweet and gambol about, teasing the children of the Citadel into games of jump-and-chase. The Dag has long since perfected how to shear them, and Cheedo helps to hold them still, keep them calm as the Dag collects their wool. The Vuvalini show them how to skirt and wash it; the Milking Mothers teach them how to knit and to darn. They make socks and scarves and tops and leggings.   

(Cheedo gifts Max with a wonky woolen hat complete with bauble upon his next return. She only sees him wear it once about the Citadel: after the scorching temperature of the day has dropped, and it is his turn to take the night shift. He jams it on over his hair before he takes the stairs, and Cheedo sees Furiosa give him a look that suggest she is trying so hard not to laugh.)


	8. The Final Word (Gen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for melancholicwriteaholic on tumblr, who wanted "More “Some of the Vuvalini who you thought died offscreen but actually made it” headcanons in my ask, if you will please."

They fall one by one from the back of the rig into the sand, but the Vuvalini are padded and tough, strung together with sinew. They all survive.

They pluck themselves from the ground like flowers, push up from the sand on their elbows and gather themselves. They search for their sisters, hauling them up on wobbling legs, soothing injuries with scraped hands. They gather together, and they breathe. they give thanks to the Wasteland for saving them, despite it all. and they laugh sardonically, about being spared.

 _How long must we go on?_ one of them says, her voice bitter and rough like sand; another drops a kiss on her weary cheek. _If_ _we had been killed, we could rest._

 _There will be time for rest later_ , says the Valkyrie, and manages to start her wounded bike successfully for the first time in hours.  _For now, we are needed._

 _By who?_ , says the cynical one.  _By what?_

 _By Furiosa_ , says the loving one,  _by the girls in the linen, and by the new Citadel. The new life._

 _We keep going_ , says Valkyrie,  _We go until we stop._

 _Who are you to decide_?, one asks. 

 _Because she is death_ , the eldest Vuvalini murmurs in reply, hauling up her pack, and raising a hand to shield her old eyes from the setting sun. _And only death is allowed the final word._


	9. World View (Furiosa & The Ace)

Furiosa is over eight thousand days old when she hacks off her left arm. Her car flips during a raid and pins her into the sand. The war boys yell their witnesses and leave her for dead, but Furiosa catches them up two hours later, white in the face and half-blind from the burning pain. She makes sure to spit at their feet in furious defiance before she passes out.

They avoid her after that. They used to pick on her until she fought them tooth and nail, in knock down drag out fights up and down the Citadel. She threw punches into the healing wounds on their bodies with satisfaction; every blow was for the pillage of the green place, for Valkyrie’s howling screams the night she was taken, for her mother’s dying words. Now the war boys lurk about her in the shadows and whisper, and Furiosa hates them. Hates how she’s hardened, hates how they look to her, how they call her things like “shiny”, and “chrome”.

She is promoted. She fashions a new arm out of scrap and rigs it to her body with whatever she can find. It’s not elegant; in place of a hand she now has a crude hook, good for clinging onto things, good for picking things up. Good for killing. Good for sliding under flesh and bone and ripping up, ripping out. She starts to smear her brow with grease in warning, two fingers dipped in black and dragged across the bridge of her nose, underneath her eyes.

Her story rips through the Citadel like wild fire. She ignores the accolades. She retreats within herself instead, and thinks of home.

She is twelve thousand four hundred days old when she meets the Ace. He is unlike the hoards of posturing war boys: he is older, tired. He looks past the rocks and out to the wastes in a way that reminds her of trees and dirt, and songs, and warm arms around her shoulders. Furiosa is used to whispering, to sideways glances and bowed heads when she passes, but the Ace looks her up and down, jerks his thumb towards his cruiser, and demotes her to lancer. She bristles and straightens, scuffing her feet menacingly against the ground as she approaches him to argue, but he faces her down, mouth drawn in a line. Whenever he addresses her after that, he calls her pup. Furiosa scowls.

They work together up until she is promoted again, this time to Imperator. She starts to paint her grease on her forehead now, sweeping it against the colour of her skin until only the sharp grey-green of her eyes remain. She breaks down the hook-arm in frustration at its growing uselessness, and uses the remains to build the base of something new. This time, she has learned. She makes it long, many-fingered, sharp and precise. She hooks up a cable to power it and learns how to fine tune the strength of her grip. She is unlike anything the citadel has ever seen before, and as Imperator, she is fearsome. She has long since converted her hatred into a need to survive. The green place still lingers, fuzzy and barely there on the edges of her memory.

And the Ace still calls her pup. she is above him in rank and skill and knowledge. He outstrips her in experience, and patience. They match in stubbornness. Furiosa hates him, hates their easy conversation, hates the idea of finding camaraderie in a place that has taken so much from her. He is the closest thing she has to a friend. They thrive on a mutual, begrudging respect.

Sometimes she wants to know where he came from, but she doesn’t ever ask. Some things don’t need to be told. She can guess as much from when she catches him looking out towards the horizon, his brow furrowed, eyes hidden and unfathomable behind his goggles.

When Furiosa takes the war rig and steals the Wives, nothing changes. The war boys are the first to go. She dumps them unceremoniously: they were only ever one more obstacle standing in the way of her escape. The Ace clings to the side of her rig, mouth scrunched into something unreadable. He calls her boss, now, because he knows she doesn’t like it. When he grabs her by the throat in a mix of anger and surprise, Furiosa punches him off without remorse.

She’s seen the way he looks at the world. He would have done the same to her, if the roles had been reversed.

He hits the ground. She fangs it.


	10. Listed (Max, Gen)

Max has started to cultivate a little list of things that he looks forward to when he returns to the Citadel; he has long since given up pretending that coming back is a chore. Coming back to a mild semblance of order and a variety of familiar faces helps to soothe the whispers that take aggressive tenancy at the back of his mind. He needs it, or he loses himself to the desert and wanders, blind and deaf to reason until he manages to haul his car about and point it in the right direction. Max has a second-hand compass in his chest, and the needle is old, and shaky. The Citadel has planted itself firmly in the north and every so often, the needle will catch, and tug, and he’ll find himself at the gates.

And so, the list stands as follows: 

1) The Citadel has fresh water. Obvious, perhaps, but nevertheless:  _good as gold_. He likes cupping his hands into one of the little pools by the cool rock face and bringing the water to his lips. He likes rubbing his wet hands off on the back of his neck, and filling his canteen. He likes wetting his mouth, rolling the water around inside against the backs of his teeth until it washes the grit from his molars

2) Guzz, another big factor. Toast gives it away to him every goddamn time, ignoring his feeble attempts at bartering. He doesn’t owe them anything, she insists, and pushes up both her sleeves, all the more to threaten off any protest. She’ll sniff at him like she couldn’t care less, while knowing full well that he’ll ‘accidentally’ forget something for her to find later. Toast won’t take his food, or his tools, or his bullets. But she’ll keep the faded yellow flower he tucks into one of the books she’s reading; the worn cord bracelet left dangling on a nail in the chop shop; the curious, pearlescent shell he slips underneath of her door and into her room

3) Putting the Interceptor away. It’s nice to roll her into the shade of the chop shop and check her over at his leisure, making notes for repairs. He’ll fix her up over the course of a week or two and sometimes Furiosa will join him and they’ll talk as Max buffs the dirt and the dust out of his baby. The Wasteland doesn’t give a shit about the precious few tires he has, but Furiosa will roll him new ones from across the shop without breaking whatever conversation they’re having.

4) The company.  
4a) Furiosa and her stories, and the easy silence that falls between them when they sit together. Sharing a bed with her at night when he’s sleepless and wracked with the whisper of voices that don’t belong to him. She’ll sleep with her back pressed firm against his, and the steady pull of her breath drags him under within minutes.  
4b) The Sisters. They never let a silence hang for long, but he likes that, because he’s always content to listen. The Wasteland is devoid of laughter, but at the Citadel, like the water, it overflows.  
4c) The Milking Mothers are cheerful and giving, and they rib him good-naturedly; the remaining Vuvalini call him  _dirtbag,_ and let him sit late into the night with them as they talk about Before.

5) Angharad. Angharad, or _Daglet;_   _Sprout_ ; _Seedling_ : five years old and so precocious. She is wild-haired and blue-eyed like her mother and desperately hard of hearing. Her voice is so loud, and much bigger than her body. Sometimes Max will hear her shouting as she comes up the Citadel steps, and he can’t help but smile. She demands affection from him as much as she demands it from her many mothers, so he’ll swing her into his arms and rub his whiskery chin against her until she screams into his ear.

She doesn’t tip-toe about him, or kindly wait for him to speak first. She flings herself at him from around corners, latches onto his good leg and explodes into laughter at the idea of having caught him. He can drag her around the Citadel like that all day if she likes, her arms wrapped tight around his knee. She chatters to him in the evenings, her head lolling back against his shoulder, and when she gets tired of talking she’ll sign, big and bold, both hands up in his face. Max has been learning steadily from Furiosa, but it’s hard to keep up with Angharad’s rapid progress. She is so often full to the brim with frustration, but helps him every step of the way, signing every word he’s unfamiliar with until he understands.

6) Having a place to call home. This one is tentative. 

His bones want to settle but the moment he feels it truly happening his brain sabotages the whole thing, drags him to his feet. He’s becoming too familiar with the Citadel and its people. He’s caught himself falling asleep to the sound of Furiosa tinkering away at her arm, to the hum of her voice as she murmurs to herself. 

One day he signs to Angharad without thinking, his hands writing the words before his brain can catch up: _crazy about you_. Angharad signs it back automatically, big motions in the air, and adds: _BUT NOT AS CRAZY AS_ YOU. He leaves that afternoon and strays for half a year and misses everything so deeply it startles him.

_Maybe I'll drift until I die_ , he says one afternoon, years later, as Cheedo threads her needle in silence concentration at the table. _M_ _aybe_ , she replies, without looking up,  _but that’s okay_. 

_No,_ the Dag chips in, her head on Cheedo’s shoulder, eyes closed,  _it’s only okay if you die_ here _, because_ _then you can haunt us, forever._

_Deal_ , Max says, and smiles. 


	11. Lines (Max & Furiosa)

The night is warm, and the Citadel is black throughout like oil. The air is like oil too: slick, and hot and damp. Sticky. Max can feel sweat beading at the backs of his knees; he straightens his legs out as far as they will go, grimacing as his brace catches on the thin cotton sheet beneath him. Furiosa is asleep. She’s still, and scrunched on her side with her nub jutting up into her chin, and Max is watching, head on his arm.

Sometimes she opens her eyes in a long, slow blink. Not long enough to focus on him, or to wake herself up– just long enough to tuck her head in a different direction, or to wet her mouth and exhale hard through her nose as she gets comfortable again. She does this every couple of hours. Perhaps it’s something she has conditioned herself to do. Max doesn’t know. He hasn’t ever asked.

His arm is resting across her body, wrist on her hip, her bone jutting into his pulse. It’s too hot to be so close. Soon he’ll push away from her and roll carelessly onto his back, but for now he lies on his side and lets his eyes wander the map of her face.

She has tight, worry lines on her forehead, but little creases at the corners of her eyes from smiling. Her jaw is set, even in sleep. She looks ready to fight, tense even though her eyes are closed, and it makes him wonder what she dreams about, if she dreams at all. They don’t talk about dreams; they’re not there, yet.

But they’re close enough to share their personal space. Max appreciates it, because sleep has always evaded him with a deep, preoccupying cruelty, but the sound of Furiosa’s rhythmic breathing calms him like nothing else ever has. The silence of the Wasteland scares him. It makes the whispers of the dead lick into the corners of his mind and seize him in a tense, tight stranglehold until morning. In the Wasteland he wanders like something half-dead, trudging from A to B and back again without coherent thought. The Citadel grounds him. Furiosa grounds him.

She opens her eyes now, and her nose scrunches at the sight of him. Max drops his gaze instantly like a guilty animal, his eyes seeking out her collarbone to trace over. When he says nothing she snorts, soft, and pushes her mouth against his forehead, not without affection. Eventually her face slides, and his eyes close when her nose presses against his cheekbone. Her hair is baby-soft at its razed edges. She smells like dirt.

His hand meanders up the length of her spine and settles across the nape of her neck. Her skin is overwhelmingly hot against his, but it’s a burn that flushes his skin clean, and wipes away a lifetime’s worth of loneliness.

He closes his eyes, and sinks into the sound of her.


End file.
